


hand in glove

by pocketchocobo (laveIIans)



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Anal, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Cat Dick, Clothed Sex, Consent, Enthusiastic Consent, Explicit Consent, Glove Kink, Gloves, Leather, M/M, Miqo'te Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Semi-Clothed Sex, Trying to Stay Quiet, Valentine's Day, Valentine's Day Fic Exchange, Valentione's Day (Final Fantasy XIV), Valentione's Fic Exchange (Final Fantasy XIV), like with barbs and everything, ouchy, poor emet selch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-19 06:46:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29746572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laveIIans/pseuds/pocketchocobo
Summary: Emet-Selch and the Warrior of Light meet in the Pendants. A bout of poorly-hidden smut ensues.
Relationships: Emet-Selch/Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV)
Kudos: 25
Collections: Bookclub Valentione's Fic Exchange 2021





	hand in glove

**Author's Note:**

  * For [am doing a breakthrough science (acceptnosubstitutes)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/acceptnosubstitutes/gifts).



“We’ve got to stop meeting like this, my dear,” Emet-Selch whispers in a low voice, eyes gleaming with a hunger they both share.

“Really?” Sidos chuckles, arching over him, sliding a thigh between the other man’s legs. There’s a little tugging movement at the corner of his lips that bares a hint of fang to the candlelight around them. “I don’t feel you complaining.” 

The Miqo’te sits upright, about to fling his gloves away to Twelve knows where when a hand catches him in the act. He looks down, puzzled, to see Emet-Selch looking up at him in desperation.

“ _ No _ .” The tone is husky, eyes slightly wider than normal. “Keep the gloves on. It will be… better.”

A piece clicks into place in S’idos’s mind; the smirk resumes. “Oh, so it’s like  _ that _ , is it?” He brushes the back of his hand against the other man’s cheek. The little shiver Emet-Selch gives in response is… irresistible. He’ll have to wear gloves more often. 

_ Leather, smooth and gentle, gliding like water against him. Soft, but poised like an adder, ready to strike. Delicate, but no less deadly for it.  _

One might hesitate to call them thoughts, but the sensation is all Emet-Selch can focus on; everything else drifts away, fading to nothingness as his eyes, his body, his very being focuses on the way S’idos is tracing out every last contour of his body with those damnable gloves. 

He is mapping out every last inch of him the way a hunter might survey the grasslands for prey; now that he has found his prey, S’idos moves like a cat in earnest,  _ toying  _ with him, and with every little gasp and flutter of breath drawn from Emet-Selch, the other man moves  _ even slower _ . S’idos traces circles around his abdomen, watching him quiver with a growing smirk. 

“You really weren’t making it up, huh,” he says quietly with a faint hint of approval. “I’ve got an idea. Something to… draw it out.”

The most dangerous three words he could have said —  _ those  _ ones notwithstanding — and yet Emet-Selch is unable to resist. 

“What?” 

“Take your coats off, but leave… whatever that thing is. The rest has to go.”

The Ascian purses his lips, making a show of being offended. “‘ _ That thing _ ’? I’ll have you know -”

“That you’re all riled up and frustrated, yes, I can  _ tell _ .” S’idos pulls him upright with one hand, sliding the other to rest against his inner thigh. “I believe that was the idea.”

He mutters a curse while his body moves to comply, eagerly pulling away the coats he normally takes such pride in and sending them flying. The boots and socks he pulls off and kicks away, heedless to where they might end up, only wanting S’idos’s hand to move  _ up _ ,  _ further up _ — 

In his distraction, he fails to notice the other man undressing. Or at least  _ partially  _ undressing, for that seems to be the aim of tonight’s debauchery. When he turns back to face him, S’idos is lying down between his thighs, as naked as his name-day — save for his own coat.

And  _ those  _ gloves. 

_ … Well then _ .

“See something you like?” the Miqo’te asks, eyes flashing. 

“Not quite, my dear. If you’d let me take this robe off —”

“Uh uh.” S’idos waggles a finger, letting the movement take his hand from his thigh to his collarbone, there against the neck of his robe. Emet-Selch had never paid much attention to the little intricacies of the stitching, the interplay of white and red fabrics; it seems S’idos is keen to correct his oversight. “That’s not how it’s going to go tonight.”

Emet-Selch’s breath catches in his throat. “And why are  _ you  _ the one to give orders, hmm? Truly, if anything, it would make more sense to —”

His objections die on his tongue as the Miqo’te peels back the robe to lie bunched over his stomach, tracing the outline of his erection against his breeches.

S’idos smiles down at him; a hungry look. “ _ Truly _ , if anything, it would make more sense for you to lie back and  _ be quiet _ . We don’t want to be overheard.” He unlaces his breeches with a deft hand, pulling him loose and straining into his gloved palm.

The Ascian hisses, biting back a groan as the other man takes him fully in hand and begins a lazy, languid pumping. “You — you little —”

“Tsk tsk. Are all Ascians so impatient as you? And there I thought immortality gave you the upper hand, but no.” S’idos pauses, making sure he has full attention before punctuating his words with a quicker, more aggressive stroke, shifting like a coiled snake. “ _ You’re  _ —  _ just as  _ —  _ needy  _ —  _ as  _ —  _ everyone  _ —  _ else _ .”

The sound that erupts from between Emet-Selch’s lips is the most debauched either of them have ever heard him. S’idos seizes on the moment to tease him further. His free hand, gloved like the other, presses firmly against his lips.

“Can you breathe?” the Miqo’te asks, carefully eyeing him. “Are you comfortable?” When he gets a nod on both counts, he smiles, relaxing. “ _ Good _ . We don’t want to get —” he pauses, tightening his grip; the Ascian throbs between his nimble fingers. “ _ Too carried away _ .”

He has never felt so good, nor depraved in his life. Each movement is calculated, designed to give him more and more pleasure, and his desperation grows. Emet-Selch pries the man’s hand from his lips, takes in a breath and looks up at the semi-naked warrior before him.

“Put your fingers in my mouth,” he gasps, “ _ please _ .” 

S’idos quirks a brow but doesn’t mock. Emet-Selch is hardly one to beg; on the rare moments he  _ does _ , it feels cruel to deny him. He would rather the other man come undone from pleasure than pride, after all.

“...If you insist.” He chuckles. “At least it’ll shut you up somewhat.”

He slides a finger against Emet-Selch’s lips before slowly pushing into his mouth with such aching tenderness that the Ascian nearly falls over the edge from sensation alone. The leather has a rubbery feel against his tongue, along with a taste he can’t quite place — likely a mixture of fabric and Miqo’te, no doubt — but the way S’idos is sliding in and out of him, mimicking his own movements, is  _ killing  _ him. He tests the side of his finger with his tongue, kissing and sucking in earnest when the other man slides in a second, growing smug as the other man whimpers.

The combined feeling of the glove wrapped around him and the soft fingers teasing his mouth is too much. Emet-Selch reaches his peak with a cry, muffled by S’idos’s movements, pulsing into his fist with abandon. 

S’idos removes his fingers and looks down at the now sticky glove — no,  _ gloves _ , because they’re  _ both  _ ruined — with a mixture of amusement and resignation. “I’ll have to buy a new set, you know.”

“What a pity,” Emet-Selch says; his sardonic tone is softened by the weight of his orgasm, turning into a croak. “They were rather nice. It feels more dirty with clothes  _ on _ , I suppose.”

“Either that, or someone’s a little more fond of gloves than he’ll admit.”

“We all have our vices.” He clears his throat. “Now come here.” 

S’idos leans on his elbows, wiping the soiled gloves on the mattress as their lips meet. The kiss is gentle and tender, mindful of all that came before, but with a distinct hint of something more to follow.

When they surface for air, the Miqo’te leans back with a laugh, flinging the gloves away. “Would you like to?” he asks almost shyly; it takes a moment for Emet-Selch to register the meaning behind the words as his haze lifts.

“What?  _ Oh _ . Yes, yes, just…  _ lots  _ of —”

“Don’t worry, all taken care of.” S’idos hunts around under the bed for a moment, looking for the bottle of lube. He raises it triumphantly, placing it to the side as he relieves Emet-Selch of his breeches before returning to the task at hand. 

Gingerly, he slicks himself before dipping his fingers back in for a more liberal coating. “Raise your hips a little for me.” He holds the other man steady, lubed fingers stroking,  _ more  _ of the teasing, before one slowly slides in.

“ _ Ahh _ .” The sounds S’idos coaxes from him are utterly obscene, and they’re making far too much noise as it is — but he just can’t stop.

“Good? Want more?”

“A little slower —  _ yes  _ — oh yes, one more. Just like that.  _ Ohh gods _ .” Emet-Selch groans, hips bucking into the movement. 

S’idos carries on fingering him while he readies himself with his other hand, warily glancing from his cock to the Ascian. “This may hurt a little bit.”

“ _ Don’t — care. _ ”

_ Ah _ . Emet-Selch is cum-drunk, by the looks of things.  _ That might help, actually. _

“Ready?” S’idos asks. The other man nods. “I’ll be as gentle as I can.”

Slowly, he eases his way inside, moving with caution. Emet-Selch’s eyes go wide and he gasps, making S’idos still for a moment. Then he wraps his arms around the Miqo’te, pulling him flush against his chest; the force of the motion causes S’idos to hilt himself inside him, and they both moan.

“What happened to being quiet?” the Ascian teases as they lie together, savouring the way the spines seem to tease him in all the right places. It’s a raking feeling, but a bit of pain with pleasure never hurt anybody, and the more he moves with S’idos’s own movements, the more the pain subsides and turns to something much better altogether. He’s sure he’ll be smarting from it come morning, but that’s a problem for a future version of himself to handle… how did S’idos put it? One less  _ cum-drunk _ . 

“You make it —  _ difficult _ .” The words come harder as the Miqo’te moves in earnest, satisfied the other man is able to bear it; he fully sheathes himself, thrusting harder and faster, leaving the Ascian to cling onto him for dear life, linking his thighs about his waist to deepen the movements. 

They both groan out at that, and S’idos leans down to try and kiss the sound away, but it’s — so —  _ hard _ . One kiss turns into a fractured many, stolen between cries that become harder and harder to drown out; the poor pillow can only muffle so much.

“I — never thought it — could — feel — like —  _ this _ ,” Emet-Selch gasps, eyes fluttering. His heart is beating wildly, pounding away inches from S’idos’s own, almost in tandem together.

“What? Never lain with a Miqo’te before?”

“ _ Never — had — the luck. _ ”

His words spur S’idos on. The Miqo’te slams his hips against him in a bruising beat, canting faster and faster. “ _ Hold me tighter _ ,” he whimpers; as Emet-Selch gladly complies, S’idos reaches his peak with a wail against the crook of his throat, filling the other man with stuttered thrusts.

The feeling leads Emet-Selch to his second orgasm of the night, moaning with abandon as his own pleasure comes to him. Forehead against forehead, panting and sweat-slicked, the two slowly reach something approaching a normal heartbeat together.

S’idos withdraws gently, mindful of the swelling, and takes the moment to kiss between Emet-Selch’s brows. “You taste of sweat,” he teases as the other man frowns.

“I’m sure you’re hardly any better,” he retorts, but it loses the snap when he reaches up to pull S’idos closer for a gentle kiss. It said all the words their minds weren’t lucid enough to form as the moment held on; it was enough for now. 

“I don’t think I can move at all,” the Miqo’te laughs, gasping a little as his thighs clench in sympathy.

“Then don’t, you fool. Come and lie down.”

They embrace one another in a tangle of limbs; S’idos’s tail falls lazily over them both. 

“Worth it?” he asks.

Emet-Selch smiles drowsily. “Oh yes.” 

  
  



End file.
